“Come in out of the rain,” he said.
Ryan swallowed. “Forgive me. I’m... I find myself grasping for the social constructs that usually govern these sorts of situations.”
“You’re grasping for what?” He was annoyed.
“Introductions, servants, an umbrella...”
“Sorry,” he said, “you’re out of luck.”
“The great irony is that I typically care very little about these sorts of things. Social constructs saw me betrothed as an infant and would now see me married to a petty tyrant. Forgive me, I’m rambling, the point is, I really must insist upon learning your name, sir. Please.”
“It’s Rein,” he said, emerging from the dwelling.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m called ‘Rein.’”
“Rain?” She looked up at the weeping sky.
“Not ‘rain,’ as in a deluge, I mean ‘Rein’ like for a horse.”
“Oh, ‘Rein,’” she repeated agreeably, as if this made all the sense in the world rather than lacking in subtlety for a man who described himself as “alone except for my horses.”
“Thank you very much, Mr., er, Rein. Do go and see to your stallion. I’ll make myself at home. Whilst touching nothing—just to be clear.”
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said, cramming his hat on his head. “Close the door and turn the lock.”
And then he was gone, striding into the wet mist, his coat whirling behind him.
Ryan turned to the open door and braced herself. Swallowing hard, she stepped gingerly over the threshold.
Slowly, her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the fire. She looked around. The house had a wet, earthy smell but was neat and tidy. She was gratified to see the floor was made of wooden beams rather than dirt; and the ceiling was—she looked up, squinted, and then stood on her toes to stretch an arm above her head and touch—rock. The ceiling was rock. Oh. She touched the ceiling again. And now she understood. Mr. Rein lived in acave. Well, one side was a cave; the other side was built out like a house, with proper walls connected at proper angles. The seam where the rock met the timber was a ribbon-like crevice, packed with a quarry of stones. The cave part of the house and the... well, thehousepart of the house came together into a whole that was very cottage-like, with a door and a window, furniture and rugs; a hearth and—she looked around—a small kitchen. Unless she was mistaken, other rooms lay beyond the circle of light provided by the fire.
But howincredible, she thought, slowly spinning. There were candles, an old leather chair by the fire, a stack of books—actually there was an entire shelf of books—a desk and another chair.
Working quickly, Ryan disentangled herself from the dripping cloak and hung it on a peg by the fire. She laid her sodden gloves on the mantle and removed her wet shoes and stockings. She checked the wound on her leg—no worse for the wear, two arcs of teeth marks, nearly healed.
In the kitchen, she located a cloth and used it to dry her hair and pat down her dress. There was a barrel of fresh water and she scooped ladle after ladle, gulping it down.
For ten minutes, she stood before the fire, allowing the heat to lick the wetness from her skirts, warming herself. Only when sweat formed on the back of her neck did she light a candle and return to the kitchen. She poked around, looking for a stray apple or walnut or turnip—anything she might eat. She found a kettle and coffee and made the calculated gamble that Mr. Rein would value hot coffee more than his desire to have untouched possessions. She set about making a pot. While the water boiled, she perused the books on his shelf.
True to form, there were many titles about animal husbandry, horses, racing, and breeding. But there were also books about history and philosophy; mathematics and natural science; and novels—both classics and the popular literature of the day. Mr. Rein, it seemed, was an avid reader with diverse tastes and access to a bookseller.
She moved to the next shelf, running her fingeralong the spines of religious texts, books about geography and economics and—
When she stooped to the third shelf, her finger stopped. She held the candle closer. The titles on the spines of these books were written in French. Ryan was fluent in French—her home was only sixty nautical miles from mainland France—so it took no effort to read titles on French history, French geography, French philosophers. There was a book of French artists and an illustrated guide to Paris. And Bordeaux. This collection went on and on—books about cities and provinces throughout France.
When Ryan had read every title twice, she stepped away and considered the shelves. In total, there were more French books than English. But how had a cave-dwelling horseman who called himselfMr. Reinmanage to collect a small library in two languages?
Without thinking, she crossed to the small desk in the corner. The surface was bare, but the desktop concealed a drawer. Ryan bit her lip. Something, some unnamed curiosity, nudged her to test the handle. Glancing at the door and then back, she carefully slid open the drawer. It contained... nothing in particular. Parchment. Quills. Loose candles. Tucked deep in one corner, she saw a bundle of folded parchment tied with a string, the paper thin and flaking, bleached by age. She was just about to move on—she was not, by nature, a snooper, and she’d promised not to touch anything—when she noticed a trio of tiny shapes on the corner of the parchment. Ryan blinked, pushed the candle closer, and leaned down to examine the small scribbles.
The shapes had been formed by hand, not printed,and crudely so. They’d been drawn in the shape of a triangle, a pair of them above with one centered below.
Ryan straightened. She stared at the wall above the desk. She took a deep breath and looked again. Sheknewthis upside-down triangle formed by three little symbols. It was familiar to her. In fact, she knew the three little symbols.
Glancing at the doorway and then back at the drawer, Ryan carefully, gingerly nudged the bundle of parchment, sliding it into plain view. It was a stack of envelopes. They’d been placed in the drawer, inscription down—so she couldn’t see the address. A greasy stain marked the old seal, the wax long since flaked away. The crudely drawn trio of symbols was in the corner of the topmost envelope.
It can’t be, Ryan marveled, her heart beginning to pound.
